


Mutatio

by kakashikrazy256



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, eventually the rest of the outliers will make an appearance, just life punching damus in the face a lot, mostly headcanons with some prose
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25775047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakashikrazy256/pseuds/kakashikrazy256
Summary: They don’t just take away your hands and face, Damus bitterly comes to this realization one day.They take away your voice.Snapshots of Damus' life pre and post-Empurata
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. Instruments

**Author's Note:**

> I just watched WFC Siege (it was...okay) and started looking through my transformers stuff. I've had this sitting in my WIP folder for at least 2 years, and thought it was a good time to brush it off and do some editing :') 
> 
> This is mostly just headcanons I've had about Damus in his pre-Tarn life. Certain scenes that I really want to explore will be in prose. Everything prior to the Empurata will be written in the past tense. Everything after will be present tense :0
> 
> This is also my first real venture into writing TF :'D 
> 
> I hope you will enjoy!

Damus had always been interested in music. He had been born into it, audials online before his optics even flickered on. Soft lyrical notes had floated into his newly activated processor, welcoming him in a warm embrace. He never found its origin; likely some random home in the distance from the hot spot he was born on. It had been the ultimate state of bliss and peace. Every time he listened to music or performed himself, it brought back those first few nostalgic kliks of his creation. He liked to hum and sing to himself a lot back in his first home. But it would always bring jeers and snickers from the larger bots that shoved him around. 

“Sure you weren’t dropped on the head as a sparkling, runt?” 

“Betcha with a voice like that, you’d make it big if you had wings.” 

“Yeah all pretty up there with the rest of those snotty fraggers.”

“But you’re stuck here with the rest of us. So shut up and stop daydreaming.” 

He’d hang his head down, clamping his jaws shut. But even when he was silent and minding his own business, he’d still end up in trouble. As the other mechs had said, he was a runt. Too small to be particularly useful in many of the labor-intensive jobs found in the city, too awkward and honest to charismatically manipulate his way up the ranks for easier jobs. He’d sooner pull some struts or drop a box of important tools than actually do any good. 

They were right, he didn’t belong here. He belonged out in the bright cities with open airspace. He belonged on a _stage_. But he's just a tiny grounder from Tarn. Manual labor was expected of him. And if he couldn’t be what was expected...well...there were few options left for him in this life.

After years of indecision, Damus decided to take the risk. He gathered all his meager savings from the few jobs he’d manage to keep, packed his bags, and never looked back. He had always wanted to be a singer. But the more he thought about it realistically, the more he worried. The idea of raising his voice for an entire audience to hear was daunting. Every action and mistake would be obvious; he wasn’t sure if he could handle the pressure. Especially since he was a compact vehicle, and not some dainty little thing with wings and status. 

So he decided to share his voice through another medium—instrumental music. An instrumental musician was a step below a renown singer, but it was definitely easier to become one, and more acceptable for someone of his nature. 

On the plus side, he was _good_ at it; the skill seemed to come to him naturally. 

He had bought his first instrument from a little tourist town in his first year of drifting from home. He had ignored the barely hidden judgemental look from the shop owner as he begrudgingly accepted Damus’ payment for the instrument, several instruction manuals, and practice books.

He studied and learned several different types of instruments. He went to public libraries to read about the history of music and the many genres that existed. Sure, it had helped expand his repertoire, but it had also made Damus happier than he had ever felt in any given moment of his old life in Tarn. 

Damus practiced and practiced until he felt ready. He reached out, auditioned, and found himself a part of a well-known band in Harmonex. He rented a small apartment at the center of the city. It had large windows that basked his room in soft blue hues, and the constant hums of the city’s songs would lull him into recharge at the end of each cycle. The band held prestige and he enjoyed playing his part, melding together with hundreds of other voices to create a melodious masterpiece. The stage floor often shook from the intense tempos and he was left breathless after each song. The ensemble traveled often, performing in cities that shone brightly, rich with culture —a far cry from the grime-filled slums of Tarn he had left behind. 

He practiced tirelessly, and if he ever felt a weird tingling sensation in his hands, he disregarded it, believing it to be a side effect from playing so much. He performed concerts and even got solo parts. He joked around with his section, went to bars and had fun. It was a rather enjoyable time in his life. As an entertainer, he found himself quite well off. If he ever noticed any political tensions or problems...well...he found it easier to simply keep silent. After all, he was finally living his dream right now. There was absolutely no reason for him to be upset or dissatisfied. 

Then he started breaking his instruments. 

At first, some strings would snap when he touched them. He bought new ones, thinking he had just gotten a bad batch. Keys would start falling off, and he struggled to blame it on the old age of the instrument. Then the entire thing started smoking and ceased to make music. 

He couldn’t explain that. 

He bought new ones, but they gradually failed one by one. Every time he started playing, he'd feel himself start to shake, anticipating— (what? What was he waiting for? What was happening to him?) and the tingling sensation would appear. Much like static, it made his hands hum and buzz with a feeling he couldn’t explain, building and building until—

It _hurt_. 

There were no words to describe the burst of agony that wracked his entire frame. He would flinch, sometimes even scream. He would either drop the instrument, breaking it, or destroy it anyways with this weird curse he did not ask for. 

He stared in disbelief at his hands, long, slim, and _fragile_ —so unlike the brutish, thick digits of the mechs back home. Did he have some loose wires? Were they electrocuting things past his metal? He made calls to some physicians, hoping that it was a simple ailment that could be easily fixed. 

Visit after visit, that tiny grasp of hope was diminishing. No one had answers. He was starting to lose track of which doctor was which, all their faces melding into one collection look of puzzlement. 

_We don’t know what’s wrong with you._

He stopped going to band rehearsals. He couldn't even practice the new pieces, how was he supposed to show up? He ignored the calls from his bandmates, burying his face in his pillows when he heard them yell from outside his apartment complex. 

Eventually, his section-mates stop coming by. He gets the letter from the music director, informing him of his removal from the band. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: The Opera


	2. The Opera

He had spent a large portion of his salary during the latter half of his musical career replacing all his broken instruments and trying to find an answer for his strange condition. The doctors didn't know what to tell him. And he stopped asking when he felt the physicians' attitudes change from bewilderment to suspicion. Damus started to notice the mechs that hid in the alleyways and the crowds that would jeer and laugh at them for being criminals and freaks.

He had spent so much time focused on music, he wasn't sure of any other skills he possessed. Rent was due soon, and he couldn't afford it. 

Damus packed everything and left behind the city of harmonic crystals, his head angled down as he took his seat on the train. He couldn’t bear to look at the warm blue glow he was leaving behind. 

He made his way to Vos. 

His band had performed here twice before and he had kept the city in mind ever since. The sharp buildings seem to stretch on forever, the tips touching the skies. Seekers glided through the air, weaving in complicated dances. Damus had no idea how they never crashed into each other. Chimes and bells hung on light posts and balconies, swaying in the wind in constant song. No matter which building you enter, you could always see the sky through numerous painted glass windows. It was absolutely beautiful, and he knew this was the place he wanted to settle in if he could no longer call Harmonex his home.

Most Vosians chose luxurious apartments towards the upper levels of the city, enjoying the view and flying space — the higher the better. Lower levels were considerably cheaper and crammed with non-flying mechs who often did manual labor in the city-state. From these levels, the flyers were mere specks of dust in the sky, yet most grounders would just shrug. They’ve never felt the need to fly; what is there to be envious of? 

Damus gazed up as he left the station, audials catching the twinkling whisper of chimes. He wondered if flying was as freeing as it looked.

He quickly rented an apartment at one of the lowest levels. The sky was barely visible from his window, but he told himself he would work his way higher in no time. He spent the first three months looking for jobs that he could do with the little skills he had. He found administrative work soothing and sort of...fun. 

Until he broke the copier and immediately resigned before they could trace it back to him. 

There was a pattern to his job searching journey. He’d get a job, start to settle in, then his curse backfired spectacularly in his face. There weren’t many jobs available for his frame-type that did not involve manual work — work that didn’t really fit the cultured life he was now used to, and work that involved machinery he couldn’t risk destroying. 

He could feel dread creep into his spark at the telltale signs of low funds. His landlord was agitated at the possibility of him missing rent when he’d only started living here for two months. The rooms in lower Vos were in high demand; he needed to make the money quick. 

So, Damus auditioned for the Vosian Opera. 

He knew he was reaching for an impossibly high goal from the get-go. The competition is fierce and he was so _average_ , in both looks and singing ability. He was also a compact little automobile, a complete outsider in upper Vos with its sleek and handsome seekers. Even the large shuttle-types looked imposing with their broad shoulders and wings. Back in a band with so many members, this had never really hindered him. People came to listen to music, not judge the alt-mode of the players. In theater, he’d be exposed for all to see. Negatives seemed to pile high as he pondered his options, but it paid extremely well and he was desperate; stage fright be damned. 

He rubbed his hands together uncomfortably as he rode the near-empty sky train, level after level whisking by. Singing would only involve his voice, he reminded himself. Unless he got a lead role, there would be little interaction with props and equipment. 

With the way his hands were humming as he walked up to the Opera Committee for the audition, Damus thought he might bring the whole stage down. He heard them scoff at the sight of his wheels and clamped down the urge to just walk back out the way he came. His spark spun erratically as the unimpressed optics watched his every movement, pens tapping against datapads, already itching to swipe left to the next applicant. 

_They were already looking down on him, and he hadn’t even uttered a word yet_. 

Damus narrowed his own optics and puffed out his broad chest with a huff. To the pits with their judgement, he’ll show them. He gave a curt bow and opened his mouth before he could hesitate any longer. 

* * *

He was extremely surprised when he got the job. With the attitude he showed, he had thought he screwed up his chances with his sudden bout of arrogance. 

“Yes yes yes!” He spun on his pedes, unbridled laughter escaping him. He stared at the letter of acceptance on his datapad, and couldn’t keep the grin off his face. He showed the disgruntled landlord the letter, promising him the previous payment of rent along with the current one by his first paycheck. 

Once he had celebrated enough with a glass of engex and a good novel, he made a promise to himself: He would not frag this up. He couldn’t afford to. 

He showed up to his first day of work, a nervous wreck. The director introduced him to his fellow cast members, and he made sure to shake hands with another mech only if they were not holding any sort of machinery or prop. He received his first script and sat in on his first table reading. 

He sang and practiced with the cast, learning his ten lines. When the night of his first show came, he followed the motions and waited for his cue. When it was finally time, he stepped forward and opened his mouth.

He sang, and all his anxieties melted away as the melody took over and he became another person through the magic of theatre. Once he was dropped into the fray, it was hard to think about anything else. His attention was focused entirely on the story and the other characters. Song after song, act after act, not once did he feel a tingling sensation in his hands. 

His vents came out heavy and labored by the final song, his spark spinning fast. There was a brief pause where the last note hung in the air. Then the entire hall came to life again with noise. 

The applause. Oh...how he missed the applause. 

He and the rest of the cast let out a collective sigh of exertion. They looked at each other with smiles threatening to break through character. 

They moved fluidly into a single row, bowing one after the other. When it was his turn, Damus closed his eyes and lowered his head, taking it all in. All those cheers and applause. Just for him. 

He loved it. 

His first few roles were nothing to brag about. Just a few lines here and there, mostly as comedy relief. But he was performing again. He was in front of an audience, acting with other mechs who loved doing what they did. That was all that mattered. 

His efforts were acknowledged, and the director started to hand him thicker scripts with more lines and relevance. He moved from comedic relief to servant of a secondary character. Then, from servant to observant cynic with witty asides. He didn’t want to hope too much, but maybe someday he’d be handed a script labeled, “ _hero_ ”. 

His life set up a simple routine. He’d come to the theater, practice his lines and cues, and then he'd leave. Sometimes, a crew member would ask if he’d like to stay a bit and help out with the stagehands. His spark would dim and he’d hastily give them an excuse. Oh no, he was much too clumsy for stage work. He’d probably bring the entire stage down if he tried to help. They laughed and waved him off, but they didn’t have any idea how serious he was. 

He tried to make new connections but he was just so scared of screwing up and breaking something. He bitterly remembered the times when he was able to socialize easily. But now? Instead of focusing on having fun or actually getting to know the others, he concentrated on every little interaction, trying to keep himself likable, and praying to Primus his curse doesn't suddenly activate. He has always been a very touch-oriented mech. Sometimes, he has to furiously clamp down his instinct to touch a fellow cast member's shoulder or give them a hug after a good show. 

If you asked the other members of the Vosian Opera— _what do you think of Damus_? They’d look at each other, gesturing with shrugs. 

Well...he's got wheels, you know? Don't see many of his...type around here on stage. 

He's got a really nice voice though. One of those "soliloquy" voices. Doesn't fit him at all, right? 

I guess he's got a face you wouldn’t mind looking at... 

He’s just so _small,_ it’s kinda cute. Oh, but don’t you dare tell him!

...He seems nice, but very awkward and sort of…fake? Like he’s always trying too hard to be liked? 

After leaving work, he'd take detours to the less extravagant parts of the city. The darker parts of the streets where no amount of singing can cover up the anger and suffering of the working class. Here, he could listen to a handful of mechs lament the corruption that poisoned the Senate and the very core of Cybertron. 

Conversations that turned towards those who did not fit their function brought out a surprising amount of rage in him. They were right, why should he be so frightened and scared? He didn't ask for this curse, he shouldn't have to hide it in fear of the government. Why should people like him get laughed at and harassed because of something that was no fault of his own? Why should we be confined to our function? They were the ones in the wrong, not him! He shouted words of agreement, clapping, and accepting pamphlets to the next secret meeting.

He made sure he visited the rallies further from his home to avoid any possibility of being recognized. He wasn't exactly famous, but his paranoia would always overcome his burning need for justice. 

Sometimes he wondered— if he didn't have this terrible curse, would he care about the political unrest and the injustice of functionism? Or would he be like the others and turn a blind eye because it didn't affect him? 

He felt ashamed whenever he thought about it. 

He just couldn't risk it yet. Not when he was finally living the life he wanted. He needed to wait and let his reputation grow. He needed contacts in the upper echelon—wealthy patrons who had the power to make change. He needed to bide his time and work towards it gradually. 

It wasn't so simple.

As tensions grew, so did the number of riots and protests. Secret meetings were less common and protesters would be out in plain sight, ready to make their stance and grievances known. Many times, small rallies would end in violent clashes with the police and he grew wary of showing up to them. 

The news told a whirlwind of contradicting perspectives. It was the protesters that made things go violent! No, it was law enforcement who provoked it! No, it was all a setup, a performance! The arguments and debates saturated the media and the streets. It was impossible to go anywhere and not hear hushed discussions at a bar counter or at a restaurant table. 

Things back at the Opera weren't going well either.

Stagehands were harder and harder to find these days. Many quit, leaving scathing remarks about alt-mode harassment and uptight rich pricks not paying them their worth. In the end, the cast members had to pitch in to paint the sets and build props. Damus' flimsy excuse of being clumsy could no longer hold up. Better someone with jittery hands than no one at all. 

The pressure to keep calm was too much for Damus to handle. 

He slipped up. 

The first few times, it got exasperated laughs from his castmates. But when one too many expensive power drills got jammed, it was no longer funny. Every time something started to spark and smoke, he could feel the pointed glares. He couldn't lose this job, _he couldn't_. So he started hiding the things he broke, gathering them in bags and dumping them a few streets away. Then, he heard whispers about there being a thief amongst them, feeling the accusing looks on him every time he passed by. 

He didn't know which was worse. 

He attended rallies in the evening, staying mostly at the edges in case the police showed. 

Eventually, he got caught. 

It had been an accumulation of many things, he realized in hindsight.

The increased tensions, the hard police crackdown on possible rebels, the missing equipment, the suspicion at the Opera. 

The final straw was getting caught up in a protest he hadn't even planned to be a part of in the first place. A riot broke out on his usual route home and the street was enveloped in chaos as mechs ran in all directions. Storefronts were being vandalized and destroyed, vendors being overturned. Someone ran straight into him, knocking them both to the ground. Without much thought, Damus reached over to help him up. 

“Thank you, brother.” The mech’s face and frame were painted up dramatically, erasing any chance for police recognition. He held homemade smoke grenades and paint in one servo. Damus nodded and pulled the protester to his feet. 

“Be sure to come to the next one!” The mech held out a pamphlet and he took it out of habit. They went their separate ways when police sirens entered the scene. 

Someone saw him.

Someone from the Opera must’ve seen him—Damus, the suspicious mech who broke machines, conversing and collaborating with a violent protester. 

He didn't know who had seen him, but someone told; these days, news travels fast.

From there, the rest was set into motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: The Interrogation


End file.
